


Unbonded

by TLara (larissabernstein)



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series, Star Trek: The Original Series (Movies)
Genre: A Single Man (film), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Inspired by Novel, Inspired by film, Introspection, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Memories, Not Canon Compliant, Old Married Couple, Old Married James T. Kirk/Spock, Past Character Death, Romance, Soul Bond, Space Husbands, Suicide Attempt, Telepathic Bond, Telepathy, Tragedy, Vulcan Bond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:01:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24276292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larissabernstein/pseuds/TLara
Summary: Professor Spock cannot cope with the death of his more or less secret bondmate of many years, Rear Admiral James T. Kirk. After eight months of suffering and grief, he decides to end his life. Having come to this liberating decision, he starts to look more closely at the tiny aspects of daily life. The story follows the events of his meticulously planned last day which he wants to live to the fullest. The background is a world in which homosexuality is not socially accepted or at leastnot exactly advantageous.A Star Trek AU inspired by Tom Ford's brilliant film "A Single Man" (based on Christopher Isherwood's novel). Set in a time frame that we can call movie era, with Captain Spock teaching at Starfleet Academy, but diverging strongly from canon.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock
Comments: 6
Kudos: 34





	1. Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> Some of you might remember the "A Single Man" AU I wrote for K/S ages ago. Over the years, I repeatedly received requests to post it again. So here it is - with minor edits that were important to me, and published in instalments, one chapter per week. Style and tone, those clipped sentences and ellipses, are very different from what I usually do, but it seemed to be just right for this fic back in the days, and I am not going to meddle with it now.

_Helplessness. The blue-grey waters filled his sight, his lungs, his very being. He struggled for air, but there was no escape, no chance of making his way up and breaking through a surface for which he did not even know where to look. The waters were an endless, almost viscous mass that looked exactly the same regardless in which direction he peered. Did his struggle take him even deeper? He was sinking deeper into a grey wet cold which enveloped his naked body in a tight and despiteous embrace as if it wanted to say: I'm your second skin, I'm part of you, keeping you together, preventing your organs and muscles, and worse: your thoughts and feelings, from spilling._  
  
_Helplessness. He was floating through quiet deep space, getting closer and closer to the lifeless shuttle which drifted through this unattractive part of the galaxy, a part that had nothing interesting or noteworthy in store, but which he would still be unable to ever forget. He was close enough to touch the shuttle's outer hull now. Close enough to look through its main window into the cold grey interior. Close enough to see the lifeless body in the pilot's seat.  
  
Air! He tossed and turned, he frantically struggled for air. But the waters were unforgiving. _  
  
_The lifeless body was sitting in the pilot's seat. A dead dog across his lap._

_He pressed his body close to the cold surface of the main window. Pressed a kiss to the transparent barrier. The pilot's eyes were wide open and cold, hazel clouded by milky grey. Like the eyes of a dead fish. And so large.  
  
Then he heard a banging noise. It started all of a sudden, repeated itself again and again, an accompanying beat to his sorrow. It became louder and louder, filled his ears; his body resonated with the steady drum._  
  
Spock bolted up in his bed. Air! He panted for air, tossing aside the wrinkled clammy sheets, soaked with the cold sweat of panic.

The banging noise was still there, a loud and unpleasant reminder of nightly horror and yet a saviour, wearing the crown of daylight and banality. Spock looked out of his bedroom window into the direction of the noise. From the garden two houses away, a familiar female voice shouted, "Hey, stop it, stop it now, you gonna wake up the entire neighbourhood." The noise stopped as abruptly as it had begun.

Spock tried to take slow steady breaths. They say Vulcans don't dream. They say Vulcans don't sweat, at least not during their sleep on a much colder planet. They say Vulcans don't cry.

A thought came to his mind: _Waking up begins with saying am and now._ _Now_ as in _not_ _past_ , _am_ as in _not he_.

His left hand reached out to the other side of the bed, as if it had its own will. He touched the empty sheets. Empty except for the small old-fashioned notebook he had left there last night. And the antique pen, one of Jim’s favourites, which he had forgotten as well and which had left a large black stain of ink — _spilled thoughts and feelings_ — on the sheets of the other — cold and empty — half of his bed. He touched the black stain absent-mindedly, feeling its wetness kiss his finger tips. When he pulled back and touched his lips with the same hand, he left a tiny black smudge at one corner of his mouth. Spock closed his eyes. He saw himself, pressing a kiss to a cold shuttle window.

His head hurt and throbbed. But waking up had hurt every morning for the past eight months. Meditation did not help. Not that he tried anyway. Anymore.

Spock looked at his watch on the bedside cabinet — 7:20 — and pushed his ink stained hand through his full and dishevelled cap of hair. Bed hair with some grey strands amidst its shiny blackness. Why did getting up always require so much effort and energy? He knew why. But it had always been one of those illogical traits of his only half-Vulcan personality — he had never been especially fond of mornings. Jim had always jumped out of bed and greeted the day with a smile. Jim had always greeted Spock with a smile. And lovingly made fun of his early morning grumpiness. Spock had always told him that only fools were able to greet the day with a smile, to ignore this blunt reminder of the present moment's volatileness and fugacity. This day which is all too keen to remind us: _Sooner or later it will come_.  
  
Spock took a quick shower, shaved, and brushed his teeth. He took a handful of pills to silence his still throbbing — banging — headache. Jim had used to laugh at his grumpy morning philosophy and silence him with a kiss.  
  
Spock went back into his bedroom and took a pair of socks out of a meticulously organised drawer, followed by perfectly pressed underwear, and a crisp, immaculate white uniform shirt. Then he opened his wardrobe and took out a fresh pair of uniform trousers and the matching jacket. He gave his boots a quick brush and straightened his posture. The man in the mirror looked familiar, but not really close. A Vulcan — yes, at least he _looked_ Vulcan — in his best years, well-groomed, as polished as his boots, and as pressed and starched as his uniform. His face stiff and emotionless, a proper Vulcan for once. _But was that a face at all? Was it not a mere expression of a predicament?_ It would have to suffice. Professor Spock was ready to show his public face. _Let's just get it over with_.  
  
He walked down the hallway and glanced out of the large living room windows into the garden.

 _Jim was sitting in the grass, playing with a small fox terrier._  
  
_Air! Spock could not breathe, he felt himself sinking deeper and deeper into the waters._  
  
Pain! A sharp knife cutting through his side.  
  
Spock held his side, steadied his breath. The garden was still there. It was empty: no dog, no Jim. Logic would have demanded from him to expect — and see — nothing else.  
  
He staggered into the kitchen and began to prepare his herbal tea. Real, old-fashioned tea. No replicator-engineered substitute. And the exact same way Jim had always prepared it for him. Jim had never mastered getting it right.

The comm unit on the wall beeped. He stayed put at the kitchen table and chose to ignore the call.  
  
The tea smelled of the past. And somehow stale at the same time. This house had once been empty. Without any furniture, without any interior decor, without any life. Then they had moved in. He remembered the day when he had shown it to Jim for the first time. Jim had been speechless, stunned by the minimalist but beautiful architecture, and even more by the greatness of Spock's gift. Then Jim had found — not his words, but his actions again. He had kissed Spock until they were breathless and their cheeks hot. Spock had been the one to break the kiss. He had been nervous. This house had large glass windows, no curtains. Jim had laughed and whispered against his lips: _We are invisible._  
  
Who was he to question this sound argument? They had kissed again and again, lips tasting promises, tongues repeating silent vows.

Now, full of furniture, personal possessions, decor — the house was empty again.


	2. Morning

Again the beeping sound of the comm unit filled the kitchen, flooded the living room, and swelled up to a persistent banging noise in Spock's head. This time he chose not to ignore it. He did not answer the call either, but he could not ignore its sound. He briefly glanced at the offending comm unit on the wall, then turned around and riveted his gaze on the comfortable club chair in the living room.  
  
 _He was sitting and waiting. Waiting and sitting. It was no use wasting his energy on pretending to read a novel which could not win the competition for his attention. Again Spock glanced up at the comm unit on the wall across the room. Impatience was one of those illogical and despicable emotions with which he could not cope. If Jim had not called him so far, he would have a sound reason for it. He had important business to attend to, and calling his bondmate to tell him how much he missed and loved him would have to wait. Not that Spock would need him to remind and reassure him of his love and trust. But there was a certain — Human — comfort to be found in hearing the other's voice across the distance of interplanetary space. A feeling of home/belonging/together._

_Spock switched off his reader and put it on the small table next to the club chair. He could admit it to himself: He hated being all on his own, alone, as if he did not know what to occupy himself with. After all these years it was still unsettling how Jim had conquered Spock's life so entirely that he had almost forgotten how to stay sane during a lonely evening. And it was the evenings that troubled him the worst. During the day he was busy with preparing his lectures, teaching students, talking with colleagues at the Academy, reading papers, and grading exams. But a home that was nothing but empty without his spouse was awaiting him at the end of a long day.  
_

_He shook his head. Pathetic! His bondmate was away on a two-week trip. And now Spock was about to lose his mind over a delayed call. What was he going to do if Jim ever needed to undertake a really long journey, or, worse, if Jim got back into the Captain’s chair and took off on a mission that would take a few years? Spock knew how much the tedious bureaucracy of Starfleet grated on Jim’s nerves, and while his admiralcy had provided them with a good and comfortable life, a life they could spend together in covert bliss, without the constant presence of a crew and their watchful eyes, there was no denying that Jim missed the adventure of his past among the stars.  
_

_Spock closed his eyes and reached out for their bond which hummed softly in the back of his mind. It was not enough.  
_

_A full Vulcan would never experience this torture of impatient waiting for a mere call. A full Vulcan would also never feel the special thrill which was so innate to this illogical longing for the other's physical reassurance. The beloved voice transmitted by a communication device. The beloved face looking out of a screen, lips forming words for which there was no need, but for which he hungered with ferocious intensity.  
  
And suddenly it came.  
  
Not a call, but a piercing scream. Spock jumped to his feet. A painful noise like the forceful ripping of a silk cloth — inside his head. Tearing his thoughts to shreds, unleashing a torrent of excruciating blows that kept mauling his inner core, dismembering his mind — discerping something from his soul — no, not something — Jim! the bond! A part of his very being was in the process of being severed from him. Spock broke down, both hands gripping his head with bruising force as if he could stop the invisible attacker from taking his most precious possession away from him. Pain! Pain beyond anything he had ever experienced. The brutal attack lasted mere seconds, which felt nevertheless like aeons, only to be followed by an even more painful silence. The aching darkness of a void which he could immediately call by its name: death.  
  
His Vulcan half knew it then. Like a bolt out of the blue, without any warning or sign of imminent danger, he had just experienced the sudden death of his bondmate. There was no doubt. But hope. Illogical, desperate hope. The Human half did not want to know but cling to hope.  
  
Spock frantically tried to contact Jim's office at Starfleet Headquarters. It was not the time or place for him to consider any awkwardness when he justified his panicked enquiry after Rear Admiral Kirk with the bold statement that he simply *knew* something terrible had happened to him. "And just how would you come to know that, Professor Spock?" — "I'm a friend. Listen, I just know he is in danger. Find his shuttle. Help him. You must do something ..."  
  
Let them think whatever they wanted about Vulcan telepathy.  
  
They did not get back to him to let him know. Spock called Jim's superior, his colleagues; he talked to dozens of science and military staff from Headquarters.  
_

_"We thank you for your pertinent consideration. — No, we cannot tell you more. — We will get back to his next of kin if necessary. You may turn to your... friend's family for more information. — You are not a family member. — In what way are you acquainted with Rear Admiral Kirk, Professor? — ..."  
  
Dark Vulcan knowledge became an overwhelming Human reality only a full day later. A full day, spent between insanity, pain, and yet a faint glimmer of hope against all odds and facts. Spent mostly in a state of near-unconsciousness. The Vulcan had known it from the very moment. The Vulcan wanted to let go and follow his bondmate into death.  
  
The Human element kept him alive, if only to make him stare down an offending comm unit on the wall across the room. Nourishing a madness called hope.  
  
He was sitting and waiting. Waiting and sitting.  
  
The beeping noise of the comm unit came too late. It did not end the Vulcan's life and it did not save the Human's life either.  
  
It was Jim's cousin, a man Spock had only heard of, and that was at least more than he could say about the rest of Jim's family members.  
_

_"Professor Spock? — There has been an accident. — A malfunction of the fusion reactor. — The radiation killed him almost instantaneously. — Yes, there will be a service. — No, the family would not approve. — They did not want to inform you. — I thought, well, maybe you should know after all. — Good-bye, Professor Spock..."  
  
"Yes. — I see. — Indeed. — Yes. — Of course. — I see."  
  
Spock saw his own face reflected in the glass doors of the book cabinet on the opposite wall; this face was the epitome of the void he felt inside, an absolute lack of expression. His demeanour was frozen into place, voice steady, eyes dry, his breathing calm and even, posture straight, his movements controlled and robotic. A picture-perfect Vulcan ice sculpture.  
  
It was going to shatter into thousands of pieces only after he left the house that night, walked — through the haze of rain heavy enough to drown his soul — the short distance to Ny's front door and knocked madly. His best friend and almost-neighbour opened her door to find a soaked mess of a crying, agonised creature._  
  
Spock looked at his club chair. The comm unit started its beeping noise again. The alleged innocence of inanimate objects was an illusion worse than their erroneously assumed demoniacal nature.  
  
He answered the call. "Hello, Ny. — How I ...? — Well, only you would call me before 8:00 in the morning."

There was a soothing quality to Nyota Uhura's soft dark voice. A middle-aged voice that spoke of a life heavily filled with cigarettes, gin, love and disappointment, longing and short-termed fulfilment. Spock permitted himself this little refuge of comfort as he let his friend's melodious timbre envelop him in its velvet embrace.

"Ny, I am late for my class. _—_ I will see you tonight for dinner. — Yes, I will not forget the wine."  
  
Spock exhaled slowly. _Sooner or later it will come._

He finished his cold tea and went over to his desk to pick up his briefcase. He stopped for a moment and took a scrutinising look at the many data disks and documents which he had prepared and arranged on his desk the evening before. Then he opened the drawer and took out the phaser he used to keep locked away in his desk. It found its way into his briefcase in an almost natural, fluid movement and took up the place next to the antique copy of the Huxley novel that Jim had given him a lifetime ago.  
  
 _After Many a Summer Dies the Swan._


End file.
